Gifted
by sevenpercent
Summary: John decides to spend Christmas with Sherlock at Baker Street- set post the Blind Banker. A sequel to Diss the Season, by J Baillier, and a gift to her in appreciation for all the fun we've had over the past year as co-authors. Conductor of Light indeed


**Gifted**

* * *

" _The train now approaching platform two is the late-running 15.25 from Southampton to London Waterloo, stopping at Basingstoke, Farnborough, Fleet, Clapham Junction and Waterloo. Southwestern Trains apologises for the inconvenience and delay to your service; this was caused by snow on the line at Twyford."_

The announcement does little to soothe Sherlock's nerves. The twelve minute delay is a nuisance because it eats into the time he needs to address his most pressing problem of the past year. If it were a case, Sherlock would call it an eleven. The fact that it isn't a case makes it infinitely harder, and he is in need of something to quell the rising tide of anxiety that he is going to make a colossal mess of things. In the pocket of his coat, his fingers are tapping the pound coin he put there for just this purpose; the sensation cocktail of leather glove between his finger and the metal of the coin is keeping his anxiety just about under control. He needs to get to his laptop. The clock started ticking in his head just over an hour ago: seventy six more shopping hours until Christmas morning. That's four thousand five hundred and sixty minutes, and he's worried that he's going to need every one of those to get John's gift sorted.

Another cause of that anxiety is milling all about him, because the platform is heaving with holiday travellers. Crowds make Sherlock nervous at the best of times, but there is something about a Christmas mob that grates even more. The passengers waiting for the train seem louder, more jolly than the usual sullen grumpiness that afflicts a commuter crowd. To make matters worse, Winchester is a university town and the number of young students going home for the holidays adds to the crush and the volume, too. Young women wearing puffa jackets over short skirts and those ridiculous bobble hats that are so trendy at the moment jostle for his attention along with middle aged tweed coated shoppers who've come in from the villages to the Hampshire county seat for Christmas shopping. Too many of both groups appear to have enjoyed a liquid lunch at the many pubs in the town. On the way to the station, each time he'd passed the door of one of these places the scent of mulled wine and minced pies seemed to ooze through the very walls.

Down the platform, a group of inebriated young women— _office workers; local small business; most likely something in media or marketing, judging from the number of designer handbags on elbows—_ starts singing jingle bells, totally out of tune.

 _Horrible_.

The only thing making it tolerable is the fact that he is not alone. John is standing beside him, gratifyingly closer than normal, pushed there by the throng. His physical presence has a calming effect; he is Sherlock's anchor in the surging sea of humanity on the platform. They have managed to get to the front of the platform because Sherlock was more than happy to shove his way there, with John following in his wake. He had heard John offering the occasional apology on his behalf, but ignored it. For Sherlock this has never been the season of 'good cheer' as his family used to call it.

The northbound platform is in a cutting with steep embankments on either side of the tracks, which act like a wind-tunnel. Even the Belstaf is not enough to keep the chill away. John's cheeks are red; add the flakes of snow borne on the wind coming down from the north to land on his sandy hair and eyelashes, and the image is almost like a post card, one that Sherlock would actually like to keep. He allocates the image to a particular place in the room of his Mind Palace he has reserved for John.

None of the cold matters in the slightest, because John is with him. Unexpected, delightful—a surprise decision to change his plans and return to Baker Street, simply because he'd learned that Sherlock would have been spending Christmas on his own. While he does worry that pity might have something to do with the decision, Sherlock chooses to factor in the fact that John's decision also spares him from the cheerless battle keeping Harriet sober over the holiday period. For both of them, he figures it's a win-win solution.

"Do you think we will manage to get a seat?"

Sherlock nods. "The odds are better on this train than the next one, because it originates in Southampton, not Bournemouth."

When he had thought he'd be travelling back to London on his own, Sherlock had considered the timetable and selected this train specifically. Although no seats could be reserved on it, at least he wouldn't have to change trains. The Cross country service from Bournemouth to Glasgow required a change at Reading, and in any case all of the reserved seats on trains had been sold out for weeks.

"I don't know. It's Christmas…the trains are always packed." John seems philosophical about it, and isn't letting the situation dampen his good spirits. John in a good mood is the most certain guarantor of the same in Sherlock, an effect that he cannot quite fathom, but he is more than grateful for it. It has changed the entire prospect of the next ten days from one of despond, disappointment and distaste for the holiday period into an unexpected opportunity. He knows from past experience that the Christmas period is not likely to produce any juicy cases for him to solve; too many criminals seem to take the time off with good behaviour, perhaps to enjoy the spoils of their earlier misbehaviour. And the murders that do occur are usually domestic and boring beyond belief. But now instead of sulking in a slough of ennui, he won't be on his own, staring at the walls of Baker Street.

Ever since John had moved in, Sherlock has had something—no, _someone_ —else to fix his attention deficits upon. An endless supply of observations and deductions ensue whenever John is about. From contemplating who might have given his flatmate him that red, white and blue ski sweater he wears only in December to determining why it is John prefers whisky to mulled wine, the man is _fascinating._ Because John had been planning to be away at Harriet's for the ten days means that he has no dates planned either. So here will be no competition, for once.

 _Bliss._ Sherlock has never been good at sharing, and having John's undivided attention is perhaps the best Christmas present he could have imagined. And like all good presents, it is a surprise, something that has happened very rarely in his experience. Deductive skills usually take that element out of the equation where presents are concerned.

As the train pulls into the platform, the crowd behind surges forward. Even before the train has stopped, Sherlock can see that the door will be about two and a half meters to the right, so he pulls John with him along the edge so that they will have the best chance for a seat. With his peripheral vision, he can see three empty seats in the carriage as it passes.

"When we get on, take the second available seat; there won't be two together."

He knows that John would do the polite thing and stand aside to let the women board first. Sherlock has no such qualms. Civility is for other people; necessity demands a different approach. Sensory processing disorder makes train journeys challenging at the best of times, being seated and able to focus on his laptop is essential for this trip, so he will not allow John to play the gentleman on this occasion. He has his eye on the seat furthest from the door.

As predicted, the train rolls to a stop directly in front of Sherlock, and then the doors open. He lets the passengers alighting at this station clamber off the train, ignoring their looks of disapproval that he won't stand aside. Then he is on the move, heading down the carriage as quickly as he can to get that one seat facing away from the direction of travel. It's the only way he will be able to keep his eyes open during the journey, and he desperately needs this time on the train to do what he must do.

His mission impossible is to find John a suitable Christmas present.

As soon as he sits down, he looks back to see John slip into that second empty seat alongside the pretty woman. She's got that slightly harassed expression he's seen on so many female faces today. _Mother of two, married to an office worker, who is overworked, underpaid and enjoying the office party rather too much tonight._ _Too many things to do in the last two days before Christmas, one of which was to visit a bed-ridden mother in a care home in Southampton._ She'd already started talking to John. Good, she will keep him occupied and less likely to give up his seat to the first woman who showed up to stand in the aisle. By his calculation that will happen at the next stop. The feminine distraction will also keep John in a good mood, which is only fair, given how he has lifted Sherlock's spirits by his decision to spend the holiday at Baker Street rather than his sister's place in Bournemouth.

Sherlock flips open his laptop and gets to work. Thanks to the fact that he totally ignored protocol and opened what he thought was John's Christmas card early, he already knows what he has been given for Christmas—a subscription to The Forensic Examiner, a journal produced by the American College of Forensic Examiners Institute. Not the most scientific of publications, but it had the benefit of being case based, which was always more useful than some theoretical or academic approach. It is a thoughtful gift, from a man who has taken the trouble to understand how Sherlock's mind works.

He has no need to take out John's card to remember the inscription; it is engraved in his mind's eye:

' _To my friend Sherlock – your present will start arriving in January: I have subscribed to The Forensic Examiner for twelve months since Molly says you always nick her copy._ _'_

Sherlock is not sure which part of John's gift he likes the most. The fact that John had actually thought about it and planned in advance what would be appropriate, or the word 'friend'. On balance, he thinks that it is the last of these that he will treasure the most, especially when it was followed up with the oral statement that John would ' _like nothing more than to spend Christmas with my best friend._ '

It is true that he always borrows Molly's copy of The Forensic Examiner, but it is for a reason that he hopes will have escaped John's notice. Until moving into Baker Street, it had never been worth getting a subscription because he was changing addresses so often. It was simply easier to pick it up at the morgue than go through the hassle of changing postal addresses, and there had been times when he had 'no fixed address', as the phrase went; somehow it wasn't easy to read a journal like that when living homeless on the streets. An annual subscription implied the luxury of being in one place for the foreseeable future, something that he doubted he would have ever considered possible until John moved in. Now, it would take a bomb to get him out of the place.

In short, it is the perfect gift from John. If the train runs to time, he has just over one hour to sort out a present that will be equally valued by his friend. His _best_ friend. What does it matter that John is both his only friend and his best friend? For a man who has no friends, the one person brave enough to take him on as a friend becomes the superlative _best_ by definition.

He looks at the Google search page on his screen. Where to begin? His inexperience at buying gifts for people worries him. Family is straightforward; he's had at least two decades to learn from his mistakes what would be acceptable and what would offend. As a child, he'd tended to want to give things he liked himself, until his mother argued that a chemistry set or a book on insects was not something that Mycroft or his father would like. By the time he was ten, he'd abdicated all responsibility and let his mother decide for him. She had a hierarchy that she applied- "Spend the most of your set budget on closest family and don't embarrass anyone by getting something too small or too big. Like Goldilocks, it needs to be just right."

Sherlock hated that story. He'd never been one for being able to figure out what was 'just right.' Either he tried too hard and scared people by being over-the-top, or he was considered churlish and rude. A happy medium is so not his area.

He could hardly call Mummy up in the States and ask what would be appropriate for a flatmate, colleague, or now, someone who is willing to call him a friend, let alone a _best_ friend. He has not had any of those relationships in the past, so he is as much in the dark now as he would have been before he'd opened John's card. Asking Mycroft would be equally ridiculous; the man considers friendship to be some form of disease.

Sherlock knows he needs to be logical about this. Reciprocity is the key here; that much he has learned from his dealings with people. His gift must be appropriate and not embarrassing to either the giver or the recipient. John tends to get uncomfortable when Sherlock is extravagant in his purchases for the flat. He doesn't want to make John uncomfortable, so the gift can't cost too much. But what is enough for a friend? How much does he need to raise this to meet the higher standards expected of a _best_ friend?

Whatever he does, Sherlock knows he is already on the defensive, because John's smart enough to have figured out he will have bought the present at the last minute, after John changed his plans and decided to come back to London. Not for the first time this afternoon, Sherlock rues his decision not to give John something to take with him to Bournemouth. At least then, he would have been spared this agony of indecision.

On the other hand, he now has the advantage of knowing exactly what John has given him, and can react sensibly, with reciprocity. If he'd just done something boring and predictable, choosing a present suitable to give to a flatmate or colleague, then he would have missed the opportunity to react to John's willingness now to acknowledge him as a friend.

He has to take a few deep breaths to calm himself down. This no man's land of relationships seemed to be mined with potential disasters waiting to explode under his feet. Choose the wrong gift and it could send a message that he does not value John's friendship.

He decides to start by finding out how much the journal cost. A quick web search reveals the annual subscription to the magazine, online edition as well as print, is just over £200. Momentarily surprised by the cost, he then realises that most subscribers would be university libraries or public services; Molly's copy is courtesy of Barts' pathology budget.

So, for a part-time locum GP this £200 is a princely sum. He wonders if reciprocity means that he should spend something that would make as much of a dent in his monthly allowance as this will have put into John's budget. Not for the first time, he is aware of the opportunity cost that the doctor pays to ensure that his locum hours are not interfering with his ability to help with Sherlock's casework. He's seen John's bank statements. Even with the army pension coming in, he knows that to match the sacrifice John has made would mean a gift worth some 20% of his own monthly allowance, which is five times John's meagre income.

He wonders what he could buy John that would cost a thousand pounds. On the other hand, he does not want to hurt John's pride, and provoke yet more comments about being a 'posh git.' Extravagance tends to make John uncomfortable; it challenges his values of frugal caution. Relative percentages might not work. Perhaps he should just settle on an exact equivalence? £200 then; it will have to do.

' _Basingstoke, this is Basingstoke. Change here for Reading and stations in the Midlands and the North.'_

The tinny recorded announcement breaks his concentration and he realises that the train has come to a halt. Glancing at the bright fluorescent bulbs lighting the station platforms, Sherlock has to supress a mild sense of panic. Seventeen minutes have already passed and he has only decided on a budget. How will he ever figure out as thoughtful a gift as John has given him?

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

"Tickets please."

Sherlock glances up and realises that the train conductor is waiting for him to produce his ticket. The other three passengers at their quartet of seats all oblige while he fumbles in his suit jacket's inside pocket. Eventually he finds the elusive item and hands it over.

"This is for a first class seat, sir. That's in the first carriage, not this one."

"I am well aware of that fact. However, I am now travelling with a friend who is in _this_ carriage, and so am willing to settle for a second class seat."

The conductor shrugs. "Suit yourself."

Yes. Exactly. That is what Sherlock is doing. When he thought he'd be travelling back to London on his own, he'd bought the first class ticket at nearly twice the price of the standard fare, because the seats had more leg room. It is particularly annoying that the only free seat facing away from the direction of travel is in one of these wretched foursomes. While it did have the virtue of a table on which to put his laptop, he had to manoeuvre his knees into position without offending the woman sitting opposite, who seems to have worn entirely inappropriate footwear and has been complaining to her friend on the phone about having wet feet. When John had returned to the hotel to tell Sherlock about his changed plans, and produced his new ticket, Sherlock hadn't the heart to tell him that his was for a different carriage. He knew from experience that John would have been embarrassed.

Since John has moved in, Sherlock has learned something important about how to manage some of his own behaviour so as to avoid annoying his flatmate. Over the years his family had become used to his oddities, so he'd really stopped bothering trying to change. Well, they had little choice, really; their genetic inheritance is at least partially to blame, so they have to come to terms with what and who he is.

But for a stranger, someone he's only known for such a brief time, to be willing to share a flat with him, to work with him, and to _enjoy_ it, is truly remarkable. That the unassuming exterior of John Watson hides an interior man of such strength, resolve and focus that he would save Sherlock's life within twenty four hours of their meeting still astounds him. That the same man is still there months later is equally amazing, given that John has to put up with some things that he's been told are eccentric, even bizaare. He's proved remarkably tolerant of violin music in the middle of the night and finding the odd body part in the fridge. To be willing to look past all of those foibles and yet still declare Sherlock to be his best friend elevates John Watson into the most important person he's ever known.

What gift can Sherlock possibly find that is worthy of such a person?

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

By the time the train conductor announces that they will soon be arriving at Farnborough's main station, Sherlock is in a right state. He's been on dozens of gift recommendation sites— and been stunned by the banality of the offerings. "Fifty Presents for Discerning Men" on the _How To Spend It_ section of the Financial Times had produced nothing of interest within the £200 budget. Somehow, he didn't think John would be interested in the latest hi-tech drone, an ebony wood business card holder or a bottle of Chateau Ducru Beaucaillou's second wine, vintage 2010.

Half way down the carriage, John's fellow passenger in the seat next to him has kept him entertained on the journey so far, but every now and then he's caught Sherlock's eye with a raised eyebrow which made Sherlock mouth the word "Fine" and then return his eyes to the screen. Thank God John couldn't see what he was doing.

He's been through dozens of ideas, starting with magazine and journal subscriptions. But there was nothing that seemed appropriate. The Journal of Trauma and Acute Care Surgery might remind him that he was no longer able to practice his chosen field, especially as the articles seemed interesting. The British Journal of General Practice, however, is boring beyond belief, and would only increase John's frustration with the tedium of the work he now has to do. No wonder he preferred to back up Sherlock on cases; for a man who valued the adrenaline push of combat, articles on _Variations in presentation, management, and patient outcomes of urinary tract infection: a prospective four-country primary care observational cohort study_ was hardly going to cut the mustard.

He had been momentarily distracted by an article on _GPs' experiences of children with anxiety disorders in primary care: a qualitative study_ long enough to skim read it,but it turned out to have been based on a telephone survey of just twenty practices, and he didn't accept the basic findings. His own experience had been completely different; the GP his parents had sent him to had been completely useless at diagnosing the real cause of his voluntary mutism.

Just after they rattled through the Frimley station without stopping, the internet connection failed, as did any viable phone signal. It wasn't just his devices; he heard a grumbled complaint from the woman opposite him. "Bloody black hole of Frimley; happens every time."

"Deepcut."

"I beg your pardon?" She looks utterly confused.

"Deepcut is the Surrey village that has the Princess Royal barracks, home of the Royal Logistics Corps and the Defence College of Logistics, Policing and Administration. It's about 300 meters from the train line. They jam the signals to stop terrorist attacks."

"Oh, I guess that would explain it."

It does, and John had been the one who had told him about it on the way down to Winchester, when he'd moaned about the loss of signal. The man is full of useful information like this.

The signal reconnects just before they pass through Brookwood. Looking back at his laptop screen, Sherlock resumes the hunt. What else does John like doing, apart from medical stuff? He can hardly get him a subscription to The Radio Times to meet his appetite for crap TV; anyway all of that was available on the Electronic Programme menu on the TV in the flat. The limited amount of sport he watches on television is rugby, but John's not really a fan of any particular club. That thought leads Sherlock down a tangential alley way. If televised sport didn't lead him to buy any periodicals, what about the live events? Almost as soon as he comes up with it, Sherlock discards it. Season tickets to a sporting venue won't work; inevitably, a case would pop up at an inconvenient time, and John would end up missing half the matches, or worse still, deciding that he'd rather go to the game than be with Sherlock. _Not going there._ He refuses to encourage John to become interested in anything other than being ready, willing and able to keep Sherlock company. There are limits to friendship after all.

 _Focus!_ Reaching Farnborough means he has only thirty minutes more before Waterloo.

"Excuse me. Did you say something?" The elderly man in a worn pinstripe suit who he has been sitting next to since Winchester — _former stockbroker, going up to town for a guildhall dinner with equally past it City relics; hasn't a clue about number six down in the Times cryptic crossword he's been fretting over for the past twenty minutes_ —has just asked him a question while he fiddles with something behind his ear. Sherlock realises that he must have said the focus word out loud; he does that sometimes without realising it when he's anxious.

"No. Not talking to you. You can turn your hearing aid down." He says it loud enough that even a deaf person could hear him. The woman with the dodgy shoes across from him glares at the volume, because it interrupts her chatting on the phone again.

John also hears it half way up the carriage and leans out from his seat into the aisle to get a better look at what's going on. Sherlock shakes his head, and gives what he hope is a reassuring smile.

"No need to shout, young man. I can hear perfectly well," the elderly gentleman grumbles as he picks up his newspaper again.

Sherlock can't resist. "Six down: curmudgeonly."

"No need to be rude, either." This is followed by a high pitched shrill whistle that drives a spike right through Sherlock's left eardrum. He flinches and an involuntary jerk of his fingers across the laptop cursor pad loses the page he had been looking at.

Another two deep breaths, this time with his eyes closed. When he opens them again, the train is moving out of the station.

 _OH!_ Something in the back of his mind suddenly trundles into the light where he can see it. John's card had said " _Molly says you always nick her copy_ ." That means John had spoken to Molly about the gift, maybe even asked her for an idea. It would be sensible to ask her for a recommendation about a forensic publication, she's an expert in her own right, after all. He wonders if he should do the same? He tries to imagine the conversation, scripting how he might phrase it and what her reaction would be.

" _How should I know, Sherlock? I don't live in the same flat as he does, eat meals with him, solve cases with him, spend most of my waking hours in his company_. "

The Mind Palace Molly has a point, while she'd be happy to recommend a publication for him, she wouldn't know what John might like to read. After several fruitless minutes, he gives up. It would be too embarrassing to admit to Molly that he hasn't a clue about what he should get John, despite sharing the flat with him.

Frustrated, Sherlock decides to abandon the idea of matching John's gift with a subscription of his own. Even if he could find a suitable publication, it would be too much of a co-incidence and John would know that he'd opened his card early and seen what John was giving him, and could come up with nothing better than a tit-for-tat exchange.

 _Boring._ He doesn't want to be boring. There are so many hidden rules to this exchanging of gifts. Too many "don'ts"— _don't_ spend too little, _don't_ spend too much, _don't_ give something he already has, _don't_ select something inappropriate. Too many _don'ts_ , not enough _do's_.

Would buying John a nice pullover be considered appropriate? The man's sartorial taste is plebeian, plain and frugal. The last he can be forgiven for; it's clear that he's never had a lot of money. But if Sherlock gives something nice—say a dark navy cable in cashmere—would that be taken as a criticism of John's current taste? Or is it inappropriate to buy clothing for another man?

Books, maybe he should choose a book. But, £200 on a book? A first edition, perhaps, but would John really appreciate it? He tends to buy paperbacks for "escapism" as he calls it. Same with his television. If it were Sherlock, he would be happy with great seats at a top flight classical concert, but as much as John is willing to listen to Sherlock's violin playing, the thought of a present of concert tickets is too much like giving him a gift that Sherlock would enjoy more than John would. It would confirm Sherlock's selfishness. That's not what friends should do.

Whatever Sherlock chooses is going to be _wrong_ , he just knows it.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

He is past the point of despair by the time they reach Clapham. Not only is he going to screw things up by getting the wrong gift for John, he will be miserable the whole time between now and when John unwraps whatever God awful last minute thing Sherlock opts for in his last minute blind panic. The gift is going to loom heavy over everything, destroying the momentary pleasure that he'd had when John had showed up back at the hotel and told him that he was going to spend Christmas at Baker Street.

It's going to be John's worst ever Christmas, and it will be all Sherlock's fault.

He can't cook, so he won't be any use on preparing a Christmas dinner that he's not likely to want to eat. The idea of trying to fake being happy to eat dried out turkey, potatoes roasted in fat, and horrors of horrors, Brussels sprouts gives him indigestion just to think of it. He can't bear the idea of committing the ecological massacre of dragging into the flat an innocent conifer and then festooning it with glass ornaments that break. And lights that blink will bring on a headache. Add to that heap of misery the ersatz schmaltz of Christmas carols and he might end up walking out of the flat simply to preserve his sanity.

The more he thinks about it, the more he realises that whatever gift he gives, it won't be enough to keep John happy. It will destroy what tentative steps the two of them have made, because it will expose each and every one of Sherlock's failings. In fact, the whole ten days is going to be be one miserable episode after another, where his social deficits are going to be exposed in a way that they have never been seen before. He'll be lucky if John lasts the twelve days of Christmas before deciding to move out forever.

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

They are stuck in traffic. The taxi has managed to get them as far as Park Avenue, but the snarl up around Marble Arch is total. The cabbie is muttering about 'bloody Christmas shoppers on Oxford Street' have turned the whole of Zone One London into a bloody carpark'.

"Want to get out and walk the rest?"

John's the one carrying the heavier bag, because he'd packed all of what he would need for his stay with Harriet. Given his shoulder, John shouldn't carry it the distance, or he will regret it for days.

"Only if we swap bags."

John's brow furrows. "You don't need to do that; I'm alright."

Sherlock sighs. "You are suggesting we get out here, because you know that I cannot abide sitting in traffic. That's a kindness you are showing me, so let me reciprocate by doing this for you. It's only fair."

There's the slightest smile forming on John's lips. "Yeah, okay. Don't know when this milk of human kindness is likely to reappear, so I'll take you up on that offer."

They abandon ship on the northbound side of Park Avenue, along the railings into Hyde Park. Across the street, the Christmas lights of the Grosvenor Hotel are ablaze.

To get to Baker Street, hey have to negotiate the underpasses at Marble Arch, walking past the serried ranks of homeless people, most of whom are hunkered down on cardboard, swathed in tatty blankets and lumpy, soiled sleeping bags.

As they emerge up the stairs on the north side of Oxford Street, John says quietly to Sherlock, "Poor buggers. Christmas isn't much fun for this lot, is it?"

"Most of those are Albanian Muslims, who've come in by bus over the past couple of weeks. For them, Christmas is an opportunity to be on the receiving end of charity. They'll pay off the debt owed for the ticket and then take home something for their families after New Year's eve." Sherlock decides not to mention how he came to know these facts, nor the number of occasions that he has spent Christmas on the streets. "Shoppers who have overindulged on their credit cards are often more generous—it's a guilt thing."

"That still doesn't make it easier to walk by them, Sherlock."

oOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

Christmas morning is typical for a winter's day in London: mild, damp and drizzly. Not a snowflake in sight, and nothing picture post-card about it. John doesn't mind; the past two days have been quiet, comfortable and relaxing. Without Mrs Hudson in the house, the two bachelors could just sit back and totally relax.

He still feels a little guilty abandoning Harriet at the last minute, but the annual battle of keeping her sober has become a drag anchor on his mood. Too many memories of their shared past, constantly analysing why it drove her to the bottle and him into the army and medical school. It can take weeks to recover his equilibrium. Instead, this year, he's been able to take long walks- from Regent's Park to all down Regent's Street, enjoying the lights, the bustle and the excitement that came from being free of all obligations.

Sherlock has seemed to enjoy it, too, judging from the reduced volume of scathing comments about consumerism gone mad is anything to go by. He'd surprised John by taking charge of the catering, organising a delivery from Angelo's, due to arrive at five pm on Christmas Day. They'd both agreed that the idea of turkey with all the trimmings was not their preferred choice, ( _too many memories of ghastly family meals, John)_ so Angelo was producing a _Natale_ table, with a classic antipasto spread of dry cured meats, salami, cheese and olives, followed by baked pasta- a pumpkin and ricotta ravioli- and then slices of roasted veal with potatoes in a cream and garlic sauce. If they have any room left, Angelo has promised a panetone and lemon gelato to accompany it. "It's no bother; my wife cooks enough to feed half of London. You are saving me from leftovers all the way to Lent. One of my nephews will happily earn some pocket money to deliver it. _Buon Natale_ to you both; without Sherlock I would not be here to have Christmas with my family."

John has his eye on the bottle bag on the mantelpiece, hoping that it would be a red wine to go with their meal. It had been delivered from Fortnum & Masons, with a card "From Mycroft Holmes to Doctor Watson; For Services Above and Beyond the Call of Duty" which he assumes is the older Holmes' reaction to his decision to stay at Baker Street during the holidays.

Mycroft's present to Sherlock is also up there, which is clearly some sort of book. So is the envelope that he'd given Sherlock in Winchester. There is also another envelope; this one is attached to a small gold cardboard box, and both are held in place by an unusually coloured ribbon- a dark blue, light blue and red striped ribbon. It had appeared sometime in the night, and John has to admit that he is more than a little curious about what Sherlock might have come up with.

He's been practicing in his head what reaction he should give if it turns out to be something weird. _Please, no body parts._ He wouldn't put it past Sherlock to have decided that some necrotic liver would be just the thing to pique his interest.

On the other hand, he can't imagine the man would settle for something as mundane as a pair of gloves, or a book. The old stalwarts of gift giving would be seen as far too boring. Trepidation and anticipation are wrestling in John's head. He does not want to offend his friend if it turns out to be something truly bizarre, but he also knows that the consulting detective's deductive skills will spot anything he tries to hide. John has had to come to terms with the fact that Sherlock probably knows just about everything he wants to know about what John is thinking, whilst he is still trying to fathom the endless enigma that is Sherlock.

"You go first."

The baritone startles him out of his thinking, and he looks across at Sherlock sitting in his chair. He seems calm, almost relaxed. This is unusual enough to make John almost wary. Too often the choice is comatose on the sofa in some sulk or other, or bouncing around a crime scene with almost indecent delight. The only other standby modes are violin playing or some obscure experiment on the kitchen table. Today, in honour of their evening feast, Sherlock has actually cleared and cleaned the table. _It must be Christmas._

The fire is warming his toes, and John is too relaxed to want to get up.

"No, you go first."

This makes Sherlock's eyes shift to the mantelpiece. "Well, let's get the fat git's prezzies out of the way first." He gets up, hands John the bottle bag and takes his own present back to the chair.

"Let's see what he has ordered a minion to buy for us."

John opens the bottle bag as Sherlock pulls a scalpel off the side table and uses it to lift the tape on the metallic gold paper. John stops to smirk as Sherlock lifts the tape to the light, eyeing it with his usual forensic scrutiny. "

"What can you deduce?"

"Thought so- no sign of _his_ finger prints coming anywhere near this."

John lets a giggle escape, "Do you often dust your gift packages for fingerprints?"

"You are assuming that I get more than one. My parents delegate to Mycroft; why not? They outsourced a lot of my childhood to him, so what's one more duty?"

The paper falls away and Sherlock examines the book. It's obviously old; a dark green cloth-bound book with gilt lettering. His eyebrow goes up as he reads the title, and then he is opening, flipping through the first two pages.

"Oh!"

"What?"

"It's a first edition. Published in 1872. Charles Darwin's The Expression of Emotions In Man and Animals, with photographic and other illustrations."

John cannot resist. "Emotions? I thought you Holmes brothers think emotions are sentiment."

Sherlock shakes his head. "It's quite a famous book amongst naturalists. A confutation of the idea that the facial muscles of expression in man were a special endowment. It was a subject originally intended for Darwin's more popular book, The Descent of Man. Darwin invited the photographer Oscar Rejlander to make comparative studies of laughter and crying, obtained photographs of lunatics from asylum director James Crichton-Browne and consulted the French physiologist Guillaume Duchenne regarding his electrical research on the facial muscles. The plates are among the earliest commercially reproduced photographs in a printed book. It's _fascinating_."

John is so glad that he decided _not_ to give Sherlock a book; somehow it would have looked ridiculous in the company of Mycroft's present.

"What's yours?"

John returns to the bag in his lap and extracts a tissue wrapped bottle. He reads from the label: "Chateau Langoa-Barton 2009, 3rd Growth St Julian AOC. Should we be impressed?"

"Yes. Not outrageously priced as some, but it should be drinking now- and it is perfect for veal."

"How do you know so much about wine?"

"Because Mycroft likes to bore for Britain about clarets over the Christmas dinner table. That's one thing I will certainly _not_ miss this year."

John gets up and goes to the mantelpiece Picking up the envelope, he hands it to Sherlock. "Your turn."

Sherlock takes the envelope and strokes it. "The paper is of surprisingly good quality." He then sniffs it. "You did this yourself, unlike Mycroft. I detect a faint whiff of your usual aftershave and minute traces of cloves. You probably wrote this when you'd been eating the Indian leftovers last week."

"How can you tell?"

"A greasy fingerprint on the corner which you tried to wipe off judging by the slight smudge pattern – it looks like ghee used by the Indian restaurant, judging by the way it has absorbed into the cellulose."

"And can you deduce what's inside?"

Sherlock smiles. "Given there is no package, it's a promissory note—of something to come. What wouldn't be available now, but is coming? A subscription to a periodical."

John laughs out loud. "You charlatan. You're trying to convince me that you didn't open it ten minutes after I left you in Winchester? It won't work; I _know_ you. Merry Christmas, by the way; I hope you like it."

Sherlock is smiling, and he starts to chuckle along with John. "Yes, well, waiting has never been my strong point, has it."

He looks up at the mantelpiece again and gestures for John to collect it.

Once he's seated, John can tell that the box has something relatively heavy in it, so not something like a tie. And definitely the wrong shape for a book. His curiosity is piqued, but he resists tearing into the wrapping. He opens the envelope and extracts a card. It's of Winchester Cathedral in the snow; inside in Sherlock's inimitable scrawl he deciphers.

"The gift of your friendship is priceless; I shall treasure it always."

John sets it gently on the side table before looking back at his friend. "Thank you."

He takes a deep breath and opens the box. Inside there is a mug, which he extracts. The Union Jack colours surround the outside, and as he turns it, he spots a logo and wording: "Help for Heroes: Support Our Wounded".

"Look inside."

John tips the mug up and realises that there is a folded piece of paper inside. Opening it, he reads:

" **Dear Doctor Watson,**

 **757,805 people served as Regulars in the British Armed Forces between 1991 and 2014. We now know that at least 66,090 of these need our support. It's thanks to people like you that we can help these heroes.** **I wanted to thank you personally for the kind donation of £200 made on your behalf by an anonymous donor. Your contribution this Christmas will go to help our wounded service men and women on their road to recovery and rehabilitation**

 **Yours faithfully,**

 **Penny Smith**

 **Tidworth**

 **PS. Your blog is a favourite around the centre; a great inspiration!**

"Happy Christmas, John."

"It's perfect, Sherlock. The best Christmas present I've ever received… well, possibly after my bike when I was ten? No, really, this one is the best. Thank you."

-The end-

Author's Note: Should you feel inspired to follow Sherlock's example, check out the HelpForHeroes site online.


End file.
